Ascheritt stood still, feeling the weight of the world’s silence. The fractured landscape around him stretched into infinity, cracked and bruised by the same law that had failed to contain him. He wasn’t sure whether it was the air that was suffocating, or the very feeling of being that clung to him, but something was wrong—something out of place.

  The thread in his hand had dissolved. Gone, like everything else, slipping through his fingers, leaving behind only the cold absence of understanding.

  He wasn’t supposed to exist.

  Yet here he was, standing amidst a world that bent and warped around him, as though it was hesitant to let him remain in its domain. There was no order here. No law. Only the echo of something long lost.

  He closed his eyes, breathing in the strange, metallic air. With each breath, he felt a pull, a tug—a whisper that carried with it a promise of something more, something untold. His chest tightened.

  And then, he saw it.

  The world shimmered like liquid in a mirror, and in that reflection—there he was, standing in front of him. Not his reflection, though. No. This figure was too distorted, too unfamiliar. Its face obscured by a mask that shifted and warped, ever-changing, as though it was made of liquid shadows.

  The figure stepped forward, slow, deliberate—like it knew something Ascheritt didn’t.

  For a moment, neither of them moved. Only the sound of his own breath filled the silence. The air was heavy, thick with tension that didn’t break, like a storm on the edge of breaking but never quite doing so.

  —“Who are you?” Ascheritt asked, his voice breaking the stillness.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  The figure tilted its head, its movements unnaturally slow, as though it was studying him. Its voice came not as a sound, but as a presence—an understanding that seeped into Ascheritt’s bones.

  —“Who are you?” the figure replied.

  Ascheritt’s heart stilled. The question—Who are you?—had been his for so long, echoing inside him. He had no answers. Only a name, Ascheritt Velgrind, and even that felt like it belonged to someone else. Something else.

  The figure took a step closer. The world seemed to bend with each movement it made, distorting reality further. The spaces around them rippled like waves on water, the air pulsating in rhythm with something deep and ancient.

  —“You are not supposed to exist,” the figure continued. “But here you are.”

  Ascheritt stepped back. His feet didn’t feel grounded. The world beneath him felt as though it could crumble at any moment. He wasn’t sure whether he was floating or standing, or if he even had feet at all.

  —“And you?” Ascheritt’s voice was quieter now, as if testing the waters of his own uncertainty. “What are you?”

  The figure did not answer immediately. Instead, it reached up with a hand. It was a slow motion, almost ceremonial, and then it touched the mask—its fingers brushing against the smooth surface. For a long moment, nothing happened.

  But then the mask… shifted.

  The surface rippled, like the reflection of a dying star, and beneath it, Ascheritt saw not a face, but eyes—glowing, endless pools of darkness. Eyes that saw through him.

  —“I am the echo of what should never be,” the figure said, its voice no longer an echo but a direct invasion into his thoughts. “I was never meant to exist, either. I am the crack in the fabric of a world that tried to erase us both.”

  Ascheritt blinked, his pulse quickening. Something stirred deep inside of him, a recognition he couldn’t place.

  —“Why show yourself to me?” he asked. “What do you want?”

  The figure’s smile twisted, a cruel, hollow thing. “To show you what you are.”

  The world around them seemed to breathe with a life of its own. The air pulsed in a strange rhythm, the ground beneath them flickering like the edge of a fading memory. For a long time, neither of them moved. The silence was suffocating, as though the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next step.

  Finally, the figure spoke again.

  —“You do not belong here, Ascheritt Velgrind. But you will. You will write your existence, and when you do, the world will break.”

  The words felt like a sentence. Heavy. Final.

  But Ascheritt didn’t feel fear. He didn’t feel anger, either.

  He just felt—lost.

  And that was something he could understand.

  With slow, deliberate steps, the figure began to dissolve. The darkness that clung to it evaporated, like mist evaporating in the sun. But before it completely disappeared, it left one final message:

  —“Find what you’re meant to be. Before it finds you.”

  Ascheritt stood in the silence once more, but now, the absence felt different. Something had shifted. The pull of fate, once distant, now tugged at him with unyielding force.

  He wasn’t sure where he would go next.

  But he knew—whatever it was, he would choose it.

  And that was the first choice he had ever made.